


Giving Matches to Paper Dolls

by callmejude



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angry Sex, Consensual But Not Kind, Fight Sex, Floor Sex, Hate Sex, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Public Humiliation, Rough Sex, Verbal Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-01
Updated: 2019-08-01
Packaged: 2020-07-28 13:16:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20064631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/callmejude/pseuds/callmejude
Summary: Theon goes too far, then so does Jon. In the end, they both lose track.





	Giving Matches to Paper Dolls

They bicker so often that it becomes difficult to keep straight how any of their arguments truly start, and this one is no different. Jon doesn’t care much what it is that started it, only what Theon says that enrages him.

“Perhaps I’ve had your mother too, Snow,” Theon leers at him in the middle of the busy yard of Winterfell. “Just as your lord father has. You look quite a bit like half the sad northern whores in winter town. I’m sure you’ll make a lovely whore yourself, in time.”

Rage turns his vision red, and Jon throws himself forward, slinging a closed fist across Theon’s eye. He feels flesh give under his knuckles, and Theon staggers under the force of the blow, stumbling to the ground. 

From the cold wet dirt, Theon gapes up at him, flabberghasted, and Jon spits, “Fuck you, Greyjoy.”

Perhaps it’s because Jon has never sworn at him before, but Theon doesn’t react at all, blinking owlishly as his skin at his eye turns blotchy from the strike. After a breath, he lifts a hand to where Jon struck him, touching the rapidly purpling skin. Several workhands stop what they’re doing to stare at the two of them. Rickon’s nursemaid nearly drops the pail of water she’s carrying at her hip. Nobody speaks at all, and Theon’s face burns hot and red. It’s a long, dragging moment before he at last scrambles to his feet. He exhales a heavy breath as he collects himself.

“You’re going to regret that, Snow.”

Despite the tendril of dread that pulls at Jon’s spine, he sneers. “Will I? You’ve never acted upon a single threat you’ve made.”

Theon narrows his eyes. His mouth is a thin grimace, but he says nothing further before turning on his heel and disappearing back into the castle.

In the yard around Jon, the work starts up again. Heart pounding in his chest, Jon stares down at his own hands. He’s never lost control of himself that way, though as he watches his shaking hands, he smirks. 

He does not regret it, yet.

Long after nightfall, Jon is still awake in his bedchamber, candles burning low. The book he’s reading has long since lost his interest and he’s tired, drooping against his desk as he reads. It’s been a long day, and Jon’s not sure why he hasn’t tucked into his furs. A lingering jitteriness compels him to stay awake. 

Just as he closes the book there’s an abrupt, loud hammering at his door. Jolting upright, Jon hops to his feet and swings his door open and is met by Theon leaning on the heavy ironwood frame.

The bruise over his eye has darkened, black and purple but not too badly swollen. Jon tenses. The fury on Theon’s face is naked and burning, but Jon finds it’s easier to goad Theon by not goading him at all.

“Is there something you want, Greyjoy?”

“You fucking _brat,_” Theon snarls, pushing Jon hard in the chest. When Jon stumbles back, he lets himself inside. “Proud of yourself, are you? You’re lucky I don’t kill you where you stand.”

“I’m sure that I am,” Jon answers, watching Theon’s face. “Either get on with it or leave, Greyjoy. It’s rather late, and I’d venture to guess you need the rest more than I do, anyway.”

“You bastard wretch,” Theon growls, grabbing hold of Jon’s collar and slamming him against his own door, swinging it shut. “I am a lord’s son. You’ll not speak to me such a way.”

“I’m a lord’s son as well, Greyjoy. The difference between us is that my father claims me as his own.”

“_Fuck you._”

Despite the result, Jon is a little shamed those words left his mouth at all, but Theon does not strike him as Jon would expect. He’s holding him tightly against the door, pressing him so firmly into the ironwood that Jon can feel the bolts digging into his back. But Theon only holds him there, a furious snarl on his face, all the uglier for the bruise. 

“So what is it you plan to do with me, Greyjoy? Or will you merely threaten me again and leave?”

“I intend to make damned good on my threat to you, Snow.”

Something tickles at the back of Jon’s neck. Not fear, this time. “Do you?”

“You’ll learn your place soon enough, Snow, I plan to make sure of it myself. You’ve no right to think you’re better than me, filthy whoreson that you are.”

This close, Jon can tell Theon is shaking. When he focuses, he can feel his hands trembling against the fistfuls of Jon’s bedshirt. Curious, Jon tilts his head. “Is that it, Greyjoy? You tell yourself you’ve had my mother to try and quell your want for me?”

It’s too far, Jon knows, but he can’t take it back before Theon is on him, claiming his mouth with more teeth than anything, and Jon feels a spark at the base of his skull. Theon pulls away to bite down on Jon’s throat, and dazed, Jon smirks. This is a victory. His triumph. Theon thinks he is showing Jon his place, but all Jon sees is a wild, greedy dog who cannot help himself.

“Gods, you’re a predictable beast,” Jon tells him, breathless despite himself when Theon’s hand finds his cock. 

Theon growls, jaw tightening on his throat, and Jon’s vision swims.

He had not pictured his first would be like this. Jon had imagined a girl with a gentle smile and soft curves leading him by the hand to her bed. This was not ever what Jon pictured, but fire licks up Jon’s legs and smoke fills his thoughts and it no longer matters what he pictured. This is what he wants now. It’s what he wants more than anything.

“Do you plan to teach me my place as a whore, Greyjoy,” Jon whispers, pulling Theon off of his throat by a handful of his hair. His sea green eyes are dazed, as if he’s forgotten why he’s here. “Just another wretch taught their manners on the end of your cock?”

Lifting him by the collar, Theon throws Jon down to the cold flagstone floor. Jon feels dizzy as the room resettles, and Theon climbs on top of him, teeth bared like a wolf.

“Aye,” Theon snarls, “it worked for your mother.”

The anger surges in Jon’s chest turning his skin alight. It feels good, strong and foggy, and Jon rocks against the shock of it. Jon’s hands grip Theon’s hair tugging hard, and Theon bows to sink his teeth into Jon’s throat. Between their bodies, Theon works hastily to disrobe them, only just enough. He only manages to get one arm out of his own nightshirt, but Jon still admires the sight of Theon’s chest, can still reach it, clawing underneath the collar with his nails, feeling flesh give under his hands.

Theon shivers and swears, and Jon has never felt more powerful than he does now — pinned to the floor beneath Theon Greyjoy. A predictable beast, indeed. He can feel Theon stroking himself, feels his knuckles brushing against Jon’s bare thigh as he does, and realizes with a start that Theon is waiting. He’s waiting. Waiting for Jon’s permission.

“Do it, then.”

Theon groans, and shoves into him, splitting him open so quick and sudden that Jon’s vision goes white. He cries out, he must, because he feels a hand clap over his mouth, but he can’t stop. The pain is startling, clarifying. Like the world collapsing around him all at once, stripping him down to his one sensation and Jon never wants it to end. His nails graze through Theon’s hair, harsh and desperate and _gods_ it can’t stop. The back of his throat stings. He’s been shouting. Not any longer, though he only knows because the hand falls away from his mouth, and Theon’s voice is in his ear.

“Taught you your manners now, haven’t I, Snow?”

“Yes,” Jon moans without thinking. 

He forgets to be ashamed. The world around them has burned away to nothing, and all that remains is skin on skin, nails and teeth and breath, the only thing Jon can ever remember feeling, will ever want to feel again.

“All — all bastard blood yearns the same,” Theon hisses against his temple, and the humiliation only turns Jon to water beneath his hands. Teeth and warm breath graze and against his throat. Jon wishes Theon would bite down again. Mark him, litter his skin with claims. “You’re just as desperate for it as any whore I’ve ever had.”

Jealousy twitches beneath Jon’s navel and he tugs at Theon’s hair again. “More.”

Theon chuckles, though it comes out tense and breathless. “More desperate, are you?”

“_Yes,_” Jon cries out, teeth clenched against the effort it takes to speak at all. “Give me _more._”

When Theon shivers at that, Jon feels it again, the charge of power, of control. It glows hot under Jon’s skin and he shoves Theon hard, rolling him onto his back.

Voice sharp and dazed, all Theon manages is “Gods —”

“You’ll — teach me nothing from only — giving me this — once,” Jon babbles, climbing atop him and forcing himself over Theon’s cock as it pushes deeper inside him. His vision swims and sparks in front of him, but Jon makes himself be steady.

Theon doesn’t seem to hear him, his eyes falling shut as he bucks hard into Jon, faltering his rhythm. His smart mouth is lost to him now, clinging helplessly to Jon’s nightshirt as he thrusts up into him. “Gods — _gods —_”

To Jon, there could be nothing more satisfying. His body feels like air, like dust, and he has Theon Greyjoy helpless underneath him, forgotten every word that isn’t a desperate prayer. 

One of Theon’s hands reaches out blindly for Jon, but Jon snatches him by the wrist, pinning it down. Theon moans and shudders against Jon’s body, pushing further into him. Jon’s jaw goes slack, hears himself whimpering. He’s not sure who has control now, but what does it matter?

“Theon —”

“_Fuck!_”

Heat races up Jon’s spine, thick and heavy and boiling along his blood. He must let go of Theon’s wrist, because two hands tangle in his hair as he comes over Theon’s stomach, and the air around them turns sharp with a scream. He does not know if it is him or Theon who cries out, and the world turns to snow before he slumps heavy against Theon’s chest.

Theon is still panting when Jon comes back to himself. He’s trembling underneath Jon, his skin hot and clammy. One arm is slung over Jon’s back, but it doesn’t seem gentle or kind, only a good place to rest his arm.

Except, when Jon shifts, Theon’s hold tightens against him, just for a moment, before falling away.

Jon hoists himself up from Theon’s chest and looks down at him. Theon’s eyes are dark and wide, and his chest is still heaving for breath.

They say nothing to each other, but Jon’s heart trips at the sight of him, and Theon seems to know, an easy smirk falling over his face as his breathing finally starts to calm.

Jon takes a shuddering breath. Theon props himself up against his elbows. Their faces are so close, it seems odd now, not to kiss. Jon leans forward and claims Theon’s mouth.

It’s fewer teeth, this time, though Theon still nips Jon’s lip hard enough to make him squirm.

When they pull away, Theon is still grinning at him, smug and infuriating. 

“Alright, Snow?”

Jon shoves him with enough force to slam his head back against the flagstone. For a moment he thinks it will anger him as the punch had this afternoon, but it doesn’t.

All Theon does is laugh.

**Author's Note:**

> lyrics from "Matches to Paper Dolls" by Dessa


End file.
